


John Watson can deduce

by Ertal77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not a reunion fic, Not really angsty, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ertal77/pseuds/Ertal77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I just wanted to see Sherlock, clean of blood, eyes shut, and stroke his hair and tell him how much I already missed him. And then going back to my bed, cry a little and sleep. It wasn’t a big deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson can deduce

**Author's Note:**

> This came to my mind the other day, while I was editing a youtube video with fanarts... Trying to link the fanarts like a story, it seemed that in the first stages theirs was an one-sided love. It made me feel sad, thinking of Sherlock feeling an unrequited love, and then this story came out.
> 
> This is still to be betaed, but I am impacient, sorry... If you do want to tell me the grammar/vocabulary mistakes, please feel free to do it, I will fix them. And if you only want to say that you like (or not) the story, please do it, too! :)

The day I saw Sherlock jump from St. Barts roof was the saddest day of my life.

  
But the next day, I opened my eyes, in my own bed, after a night of peaceful pill-forced sleep, and the sun was already high in the sky, painting the dust motes in the air of my bedroom a curious golden colour, and I told myself:  _'No'_.

  
Just that word, _'no'_ , and I breathed deeply and sat up on my bed. The face of Sherlock, covered in blood, came immediately to my mind. I breathed again, and forced my head to recall another image of Sherlock. I saw him, then, sitting on his armchair, drinking tea and reading a magazine. Then, noticing I had entered the sitting room and smiling with his eyes, his mouth still in a studied oblivious gesture. Yes, this image was much better. I could live with it.

  
I got up, picked up some fresh clothes, and went downstairs to the shower. Of course, all the things that belonged to Sherlock were still there. I tried not to look at them and dashed to have my shower. I let the warm water fall on my face and my trembling body until I felt that I should be doing something else and the morning would be completely wasted if I didn’t hurry up. I dressed quickly and went to the kitchen. I stayed there, leaning against the door frame, staring at the laboratory items on the table, for about ten minutes. I could smell Sherlock, damn it! That mixture of sulphur and copper and tea that welcomed me every morning since I moved to Baker Street. Uncountable memories of Sherlock in his dressing gown, face betraying that he hadn’t slept at all the night before, concentrated on his experiment, until the moment he noticed I was there. Then his face transfigured completely: his eyes would begin to shine, his posture would become aware and the shadow of a smile would appear at the corner of his mouth. Most days he didn’t say even a 'Good morning', only a grunt greeted me. But I always could feel that my presence was wanted and welcomed.

  
“OK, enough of that!” I said aloud. “I am Captain John H. Watson, MD, and I can cope with this.”

  
I approached the cabinet, kindly pushing aside an imaginary Sherlock, as every morning I did with the real one, and I started my daily routine of filling the kettle, turning it on, taking two teabags from the tin and placing them in our favourite mugs. When the water was ready, I poured it in both mugs. I was very aware of the fact that I was making two cups instead of just one, but I couldn’t help it. ' _I will take it to Mrs. Hudson, she might like it_ ,' I thought. And that was exactly what I did.

* * *

  
The morning turned afternoon in a quite relaxed way: I stayed with Mrs. Hudson for lunch, I left my mobile in my bedroom in order to avoid sympathetic calls, and when I came back to the flat I had the sudden urge to go for a stroll. But when I stepped onto the street, I realized I was fooling myself: there was only a place where I wanted to be. Or, best said, a person who I wanted to be with. I took the underground and went to St. Barts.

  
I looked up to the roof. I could almost see him there. I was morbidly attracted by the blood stain in the concrete pavement but, before approaching it, I replayed all my movements from the previous afternoon. I was standing exactly on the spot where Sherlock told me to stop and look at him. Then, I started to run towards the building: I did it again, but this time I took a careful glance to the traffic before running. I stopped at the exact place where the damned bicycle collided with me. From that spot, I could still see the blood stains. But the day before, there was a van, and my vision was spared from the fall during a few moments. Maybe more than a few moments, as I felt dizzy when I stood up, and then where was the bicycle? Why wouldn’t the driver stop and make sure I was alright? It was a bit odd…  
And then… I moved onwards, and Sherlock’s body was on the ground, and there was blood splattering his face. Not much blood, but I hadn’t the chance to look at his injuries closely; there were too many people standing there, between him and me, sympathetic hands that grabbed me and pulled me away from his body. But I touched his wrist, and there was no life there, nor in his pale open eyes… I knelt by the blood stains and touched them with my fingers. I could sense something out of place, but I felt dizzy again and my mind couldn’t think straight. I stood up and entered the building.

  
I could draw a floor plan while blindfolded, given the amount of time I had spent at St. Barts in all my life, first as a student, after that doing my practise, and in the last year and a half following Sherlock to the mortuary and the underground labs. This was where my steps lead me.

  
Molly was bent over her table, sipping a hot tea and filing paperwork.

  
“Hello, Molly. I'd hoped I would find you here.”

  
She raised her face from her work with horrified features. It wasn’t me who had died, was it? She didn’t need to look at me that way. Molly composed her face and tried to smile.

  
“Hello, John. How are you? I hope you have slept fine…”

  
“Yes, thank you, the pills you gave me were very effective”.

  
She smiled again, a more sincere smile, and then she adopted a matter-of-fact tone.

  
“Well, John, you know… Anything I can do for you… Here I am!”

  
“Yes, in fact, you can help me… I want to see Sherlock.”

  
Molly looked panicked now. “Why? You can’t, that’s not possible!”

  
Again the odd feeling… something out of place. If I was Sherlock, I would deduce it in a snap. Instead, I had to question Molly.

  
“And why is it not possible? The funeral is tomorrow. I want to say goodbye to Sherlock properly, not in front of tons of people…”

  
She returned her gaze to her work, stubbornly avoiding my eyes. “I’m sorry, John. He’s not here. His brother took him to another place”.

  
I felt disappointed. Of course, Mycroft was surely preparing a huge funeral for his little brother. Molly kept on ignoring me. I took out my mobile and, yes, amongst the dozens of missed calls, there were three from Mycroft. It was the perfect moment to call him back. I said goodbye to Molly, and she looked really relieved to see me leaving. I stored that odd behaviour and left the lab and the hospital, phoning Mycroft as soon I reached the main stairs.

  
“Doctor Watson”, greeted me after only two chirps, “I have been calling you this morning.”

  
His voice seemed really concerned and grave. I felt warm at his answer: finally something exactly the way it should be!

  
“I’m sorry, Mycroft, I was too affected to talk to you. My condolences.”

  
There was a silence and then a sigh at the other end of the line. Then Mycroft spoke again.

  
“Have my condolences, too… If I can be of any use to you, of course I’ll be delighted to help. You don’t have to fret about the rent, for instance, and I will send a removal team to pick up all of Sherlock’s belongings that you don't want in the flat.”

  
“That’s… Thank you. But, in fact, I wanted to ask you a favour… I want to see Sherlock.”

  
More silence at the end of the line.

  
“John… That’s not healthy, you know?”

  
I felt my cheeks burn. Why the hell did Mycroft always try to convince the rest of the world that they were acting unreasonably?

  
“Listen, Mycroft: I only want to say goodbye properly to my best mate. I think it’s a fair asking. I don’t want a farewell tomorrow, with all the people, even journalists, all around me. I need a private farewell. Is it asking too much? He was my mate, Mycroft…”

  
I was aware of the desperation in my voice. But what I thought was going to be a simple request was becoming more complicated every moment. I felt tired. I just wanted to see Sherlock, clean of blood, eyes shut, and stroke his hair and tell him how much I already missed him. And then go back to my bed, cry a little and sleep. It wasn’t a big deal.

  
“I’m sorry, John, but it won’t be possible. Our family has some traditions, and my mother would be very upset if I let you come and interfere with them.”

  
Sherlock’s mother. Of course. I hadn’t thought of her, she must be devastated. I coughed to clear my throat, and told Mycroft to send her my sympathies, too.

  
“See you tomorrow at the funeral, John. Try to rest. Do you want me to send a car to fetch you and Mrs. Hudson?”.

  
“That would be great, thank you”.

  
And we hanged up.

 

* * *

  
But it wasn’t so easy to rest. Lying in my bed with my eyes open, I could only go through of the events again and again. First, the fake call to make me go home and check on Mrs. Hudson. Then, when I was just arriving at St. Barts again, the phone call from Sherlock. A lot of rubbish that made no sense, and his insisting that I stayed at that given spot. The beginning of the fall. The sod bicycle, then me approaching the bloody body of Sherlock… Not so bloody for a huge fall, was it? Some splashing in his face, a little puddle beneath him. It looked bigger yesterday, but when I saw the stain in the street this afternoon, in fact it was only vestigial. And then the paramedics from St. Barts grabbing him, placing him in a stretcher and Sherlock disappeared from sight in seconds. I wasn’t allowed to see him again when I came in the hospital and was comforted by Molly… She told me I was too affected. That was true, of course, and she gave me some pills and watched me taking them… A cab was waiting for me afterwards, and Mike took my arm and accompanied me to sit inside it, and he didn’t let me watch the blood stain, interposing his body in order to relax me… Molly told me that Moriarty’s body was also in the roof. He had shot himself in the mouth. And that was all, all the facts.  
But there were more, of course… Memories of Sherlock from the last months that lingered in the corner of my mind. Sherlock staring at me over his newspaper, and pretending to read when I raised my eyes, feeling observed. Sherlock's hurt look when I got crossed with him and left the flat for a relaxing stroll. Sherlock opening my bedroom’s door when he thought I was sleeping; sometimes he just stayed there, watching at me with an unreadable face, but sometimes he came nearer me. Then he sat down in my bed, intertwined his fingers below his chin and stared at me. I kept my eyes shut when he did this, of course, so I don’t know what his face would tell me in those moments. But, from time to time, I could feel his fingers in my hair, only a barely-there touch, and then he was gone again. I never told him about these gazes. Honestly, what should I have told him? It all felt rather strange. It wasn’t disgusting at all, I was very fond of Sherlock, indeed, but… what if he felt something different for me? I wasn’t prepared to answer for that. I didn’t know what to think, what to do of all of this.

  
My mind returned to the events, to the phone calls, to the fall, and suddenly I sat up in my bed, feeling very awake. My hand was trembling when I took my phone from the night stand and selected Mycroft’s name from my 'last calls' menu. It was half past midnight, an unreasonable hour to phone anybody, but he would be awake, that’s sure.

  
I heard a sigh on my phone.

  
“John. Is there anything I could do for you?”

  
I felt right and confident now. I had to speak before Mycroft could fool me again.

  
“Yes, Mycroft. I want to see your brother.”

  
I heard someone, perhaps Mycroft himself, pouring a liquid. I bet it was brandy in a glass.

  
“John… I thought we had settled this…”

  
“Tell Sherlock I want to see him.”

  
I could hear a snappy shot of brandy landing in Mycroft’s throat. His voice was rough when he spoke again. He was having a really awful day, that was obvious.

  
“I told you earlier, John, what you are doing is not healthy… I know you are hurt, but do try to rest and tomorrow, after the funeral, we can talk and you will feel like you can really cope with all of this”.

  
“No, Mycroft. I don’t want to cope with it. What I want, as I have told you repeatedly, is to see your brother. Tell him I know he is alive. I have to see him”.

  
Uncomfortable silence. At last, I added:

  
“Would you tell him?”

  
He coughed and answered:

  
“We must talk. A car will pick you up in ten minutes.”

  
I jumped from my bed and rushed to take my pyjamas off and put my clothes on. I splashed my face with water in the bathroom and went downstairs to the street door, taking two steps with every stride. Baker Street was empty at those hours, of course. I put my hands in my parka’s pocket and paced the pavement in front of our building, watching closely every car that happened to pass by Baker Street. Only two minutes later, a familiar long black car slowed and then stopped a few feet from me. I opened the back door at the spot and stepped in. I wasn’t very surprised to find Mycroft himself sitting in the back seat of the car, instead of his usual PA.

  
“Good night, John”, he greeted me, with his softer voice. He looked sad and tired. I thought that he was going to go bald early thanks to his brother.

  
“Mycroft”.

  
He sighed and the car moved again. He started to talk at last, barely looking at me.

  
“Obviously, my brother has underestimated your observation skills.”

  
“That's not a surprise for me”, I chuckled. “Sherlock must be laughing at the ‘dumb John Watson’ right now, that’s for sure…”

  
He looked me in the eye now, very serious.

  
“He’s not laughing at all, John. In fact, he is really distressed by this whole chain of events.”

  
“Then why? Why doing it? Faking his own suicide, in front of my eyes? Is he aware of the cruelty of what he has done?”. I felt my eyes prickling and my face hot, but I wasn’t going to cry a single tear in front of that cold and pompous man.

  
He looked really annoyed, but also a bit sad, when he answered me:

  
“He didn’t have any other option, believe me. He was trying to save you, John: you, Mrs. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade were in great danger. Moriarty had infiltrated his men and they were to kill you, all three, hadn’t Sherlock jumped that roof. He wasn’t intending to be cruel, but to save your life.”

  
I looked down at my shoes, trying to digest his words.

  
“But Moriarty is dead now, isn’t he? Sherlock can come back home and forget all this…”

  
“Moriarty wasn’t alone, at all. His circle of influence was huge. My brother has decided to finish the job and dismantle completely the whole Moriarty organization. This will be a long work, John, and he wants to perform it alone. He doesn’t want to put anyone else in peril, again.”

  
I gulped, still looking at my shoes, feeling overwhelmed.

  
“And when… When is he coming back, then?”

  
“John… I’m sorry, but we don’t even know if he will be able to come back to London again… And if he will, it will be within a few years. I don’t know if you will see him again.” He paused, and seeing that I remained silent, he added: “I’m sorry. But it’s for the best, I hope you understand it”.

  
I had a sudden inspiration and raised my eyes to look at him.

  
“He will need help. I will go with him.”

  
He shook his head and said:

  
“No, John, he would never allow it. Not after all the work and all the pain he has taken to keep you safe and sound. Forget it.”

  
He knocked the security darkened glass that separated us from the driver, and the car changed direction. Surely, we were going back to Baker Street. I felt a heavy weight inside my chest. I couldn’t believe this was the end of the story, but I couldn’t find anything else to say. Finally I asked him:

  
“Why is it that Molly Hooper and you knew the plan, and I was left behind? I thought Sherlock trust in me."

  
“Of course, Doctor. But he says that you are an awful actor, and if anyone notices that you know that Sherlock is alive, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you will be in danger again. So please, be sure of acting the grieving widow tomorrow at the funeral.”

  
With this, the door by my side opened and I had no other alternative than going out. I heard a whispered “Good night, John”, and the slide of the door, before I could even turn to face the car again. It was already moving away from me. I sighed and looked for my key. I felt exhausted. I only wanted my bed and a night without dreams. I was sure I could cope with all that new information after a good rest.

 

* * *

  
The funeral was nice, but cosier and not as magnificent as I would have expected from the Holmes family. It was clear for me that Sherlock’s mother knew the true about his son, too. She was in the front, serious and inscrutable, and Mycroft lent her his arm for support. I wasn’t introduced to her. I wondered if there were other members of the family, there on the graveyard, perhaps cousins or aunts. It could well be, I didn’t know half the people present there. But I knew that some of them were journalists, although Mycroft had forbidden them to take any photographs. I could feel their eyes fixed on me, taking notes of all my details and writing the article in their minds. I approached Mycroft’s PA, the woman whose name was not Anthea. She had a perfect poker face, but she turned to me and gave me a little commiserative smile. Not a big one, or a hand on my arm: she knew of course that Sherlock was not in that black expensive coffin. I coughed, with my eyes on the floor, and without looking at her, I told her very quietly:

  
“Can I talk to your boss when the service finishes? Outside, in the parking lot.”

  
I looked at her then, with the corner of my eye, and she nodded. Good. I came back with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He was the only representative of Scotland Yard. The Force sure was celebrating in a pub that they had finally get rid of the annoying Sherlock Holmes, the Fraud. I was glad of Lestrade presence, though. He really looked like someone who had lost a friend.

  
People started to clear out, but I stayed. I asked Lestrade if he could take Mrs. Hudson home, as I wanted to stay a little bit more. He nodded and they strolled slowly towards the parking lot. I stayed next to the place where they have put the coffin, with my eyes fixed on the disturbed soil, but feeling dozens of eyes staring at me. I hoped I was doing well, acting ‘the grieving widow’, as Mycroft had put it. I was grieving, in fact: I had lost Sherlock. The fact that he was still breathing didn’t change the situation for me. I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my life then, if I wasn’t allowed to follow Sherlock and help him with his cases. No more cases for Doctor Watson. No more chases, no more sleepless nights following leads, no more dinners at the Chinese restaurant at 11 p.m., no more laughs, no more life. ' _Journalists, I hope you are writing all of these right, guys_ ', I thought.

  
After a while, that could be anything between ten minutes to two hours, I raised my head and finally turned. There was nobody left. Good. I strode towards the parking lot myself, finally.

  
A few black cars were still there. One of the doors opened and Anthea got out of the car. I approach it and occupied the place left by the woman. She began to pace, toying with her mobile phone and lighting a cigarette. I was left alone with Mycroft.

  
“Well, John, I have to congratulate you on your acting skills, even Mummy was impressed by your sorrowful face”, he said.

  
I cleared my throat. I had wondered a lot all the morning about how I was going to tell him what I wanted to say, but it wasn’t easy anyway, and Mycroft was always so intimidating… But it had to be done.

  
“I’ve made a decision”, I began.

  
I wasn’t looking at his face, but I could feel his brow raising.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Yes”, I nodded. I breathed loudly and continued: “The front page in the news tomorrow will say that, after Sherlock Holmes funeral, his grieving friend and blogger, who looked really affected during the service and burial, went back to his flat and committed suicide as well.” I looked at him at last. He was very serious. Well, he wasn’t laughing or scoffing at my idea, that was something. “I think sleeping pills will be the best option, being a doctor. What do you think? Could you arrange it for me? I will be dead for the world too, and I will be free to follow Sherlock wherever he is going.”

  
Mycroft seemed thoughtful. He looked by the window. Anthea was talking by her phone now, shaking her cigarette hand as excited by the conversation. So far away.

  
“John… What you are suggesting is very noble of you.” He looked me again, and even I could see that he was trying to sound tough. “But you, unlike my brother, have friends and a lot of people who loves you. If we did this, you wouldn’t be able to see them in a considerable amount of time. They would suffer thinking you are dead”.

  
“Not unlike your brother, then”, I couldn’t help to say. “Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are devastated. And he still has some family. And grateful clients who own him their lifes.” And I didn’t say it aloud, but I thought: ' _And me_ '.

  
“But my brother hasn’t got any problem at all in not seeing again any of these persons, and that would not be your case”, Mycroft added, and my heart sank. “I’m sorry, he won’t allow it, he has made very clear what he wants, and as you already know, he doesn’t change his mind once he’s set on something, never. Sherlock is very stubborn.”

  
I licked my lips, feeling uneasy. I only had one card left.

  
“I want you to text him”, I whispered, “and tell him that I want to give him a chance.”

  
Mycroft raised both eyebrows now, surprised.

  
“No! Wait!”, I said, raising my voice. “Don’t tell him this way! Oh, my God, what was I thinking? It’s Sherlock we are talking about…”

  
He seemed to relax, relieved. I mulled the words in my head and finally found what I wanted to say.

  
“Tell him that I want to give US a chance”. I highlighted the ‘us’ in my sentence.

  
Mycroft didn’t make any face this time, he only took out his phone from a pocket inside his coat, and wrote a text. He was as fast as his brother, and the answer came with a ‘ping’ just seconds later. He looked at me again and smiled slowly.

  
“Congratulations are in order, I think. You are in.”

  
My heart was menacing with coming out my mouth, and I had troubles to breath. Mycroft frown and I managed to keep my body and my emotions under control. He sighed and smiled again, and it looked as a sincere smile.

  
“A car will take you home now. You will be delivered all the necessary in less than an hour. Prepare a bag with your passport, gun and some clothes. I will go to Baker Street in, say, one hour and a half, to make the ‘discovery’ of your dead body; it’s better this way, isn’t it? I’m sure you don’t want to scare Mrs. Hudson any further…”. I nodded. “You will have a fast funeral tomorrow morning, an open casket one, and after the service my brother and you will take a flight out of England.”

  
I nodded again, feeling lightheaded. As I was turning to the door, he called me again:

  
“John”.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Are you sure? It all can get cancelled before you take the pills. I know you are very attached to Sherlock, but this plan implies a lot of changes in your present life”.

  
That was my turn of smiling.

  
“God, I haven’t even said ‘thank you’ to you! Yes. Yes, I’m sure, I’m bloody sure! In fact I haven’t been so sure about something in my whole life!.”

  
And that was the beginning.

 


End file.
